


Field of Dreams

by Melanie_Athene



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Dream Sex, M/M, Post-Quest, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-04-24 08:22:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4912249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melanie_Athene/pseuds/Melanie_Athene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Can Frodo adapt to his new life in the Blessed Realm?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Field of Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Waymeet's "The Summer Blockbuster Challenge" (July 2006)

_The sweet weight of the sun rested on his shoulders, the ticklish rustle of flowering grasses whispered all around. Tilting back his head, curls dancing wildly in an errant breeze, a joyous laugh spilled from his lips as he stood poised on a cliff overlooking the restless sea. He could fly. He knew he could! All he had to do was take but a single step... trust himself to the endless blue of the sky..._

_Sturdy arms slipped around his waist, firmly anchoring him to the ground. He stared down at two very familiar hands, enchanted by their rich earth tones: greens and browns staining well-tanned skin. How pale his own flesh looked in comparison. How striking the contrast. How he had hungered for this touch._

_“Sam,” he whispered. “Sam...”_

And Frodo awoke, weeping.

  


~*~

  


“I'm worried about him, Gandalf,” Bilbo confessed, pouring his guest a fragrant cup of tea. “It's like living with a ghost. He hardly speaks, he rarely eats... and he never smiles. It's been well over a year -- almost two -- since we arrived in Tol Eressëa. Shouldn't Frodo be, well, healed by now?”

Wisps of steam curled like question marks around the wizard's head as he gave careful consideration to his reply. “He is alive,” he murmured finally. “That was more than we dared hope for a long, long time.”

“Yes, yes,” Bilbo waved his hands impatiently. “And don't think that I'm not grateful for that fact. But, confound it, Gandalf, sometimes I can't help but wonder if we did the lad a favour. Sometimes... sometimes I think it would have been more of a kindness had we let him go.”

“That was not for us to decide.” Gandalf's cup settled into its saucer with a sharp clatter. “The Valar made him an offer. Frodo made it his choice to continue in this life. His reasons are his own. And, in due time, no doubt he will find a path that leads him safely home. Have patience, my dear friend. Have faith. He is an extraordinary hobbit.”

“Of course he is -- he's a Baggins,” Bilbo retorted, discreetly wiping away a tear.

Silently, the wizard and the old hobbit turned their gazes to the lonely figure standing in the field behind Bilbo's smial. Frodo's back was to them, but there was no need to see his face to read his torment. His shoulders drooped dejectedly as he gazed out to sea.

  


~*~

  


_“I'm sorry,” Frodo whispered. “I'm sorry, Sam. I'm such a failure. I've failed you all. I've lost my way... The Ring won in the end.”_

_“That isn't true.” Sam said, gently clasping Frodo's injured hand between his own work-roughened hands. “ You saved us. Just as I always knew you would.”_

_“What did I ever do to deserve such blind devotion?” Frodo wondered, wearily resting his chin on Sam's bowed head._

_“It isn't blind!” Sam argued, turning Frodo's hand and placing an adoring kiss in the open palm. “Don't you know that you're the finest hobbit that ever lived?”_

_“I'm a veritable paragon of virtue,” Frodo said bitterly._

_“Aye, that you are,” Sam agreed._

_“How can you say that? I turned your whole world topsy-turvy! I tore your heart apart. And then, like a coward, like a thief in the night, I simply fled.”_

_“You did what you had to do... as you have always done.”_

_“Too little... too late...” Frodo closed his eyes in despair._

_“No, Frodo, no. You don't understand. It's not too late... it's too soon.”_

  


~*~

  


“Frodo?” Bilbo peered around a half-opened bedroom door. The room was empty, the bed neatly made. Quite probably, it had not been slept in at all. In fact, the entire room looked abandoned. No books stacked on every available surface, no litter of frantically scribbled notes. No candle stubs on the nightstand, no clothes tossed haphazardly towards the laundry hamper. Not a trace of the careless, cheerful clutter so typical of the lad he had brought into his home all those years ago. Scarcely any evidence at all remained to remind Bilbo that this room was currently in use. Even the bedroom window was tightly shut, the curtains securely closed. Young Frodo had always insisted that his window remain open no matter how inclement the weather.

“I like to smell the flowers,” Frodo had admitted, somewhat sheepishly, when Bilbo complained of the draft always blowing from under his door.

Bilbo smiled at the thought of those wonderful days at Bag End. His beautiful garden... Sam's garden now. No doubt it was as lovely as ever. Sam would see to that. The lad knew his gardening. He'd learned from a master... but, beyond that, tending the soil was in his heart.

Bilbo's smile faded.

If only Frodo's heart could find what what it most loved...

  


~*~

  


_Sam's lips were warm and tasted of ripe berries. Frodo deepened the kiss, his face flushed, his pulse racing._

_Reluctantly, panting heavily, they broke apart to seek much needed air._

_“I never knew,” Frodo whispered, trailing wet kisses down Sam's broad, bared chest, trembling fingers doing battle with his own stubborn buttons. “I never knew that it could be like this. Why didn't I know, Sam? Why?”_

_“It doesn't matter, love.” Sam tilted Frodo's face up with a gentle finger. “We know now.”_

_“Yes,” Frodo moaned, as clever hands slid past the barrier of his clothes. “Yes, oh yes, Sam... Now I know...”_

  


~*~

  


“You know that it's expected that we both attend this evening?” Bilbo asked, brushing at imaginary wrinkles in his weskit as he entered the kitchen.

Frodo blinked, his gaze slowly lifting from the bowl of strawberries and cream he was heedlessly mashing into a pulpy goo.

“Don't tell me that it slipped your mind?” Bilbo chided. “Lord Elrond's birthday feast?” he prompted, as no glimmer of remembrance lit the younger hobbit's face. “Ah, by the Lady, Frodo. Haven't I been reminding you of this for the past fortnight or more?”

Frodo pushed the bowl away, and turned his attention to the fire cracking on the hearth.

“You're not coming with me, are you?” Bilbo sighed.

Silence met the question.

“Very well, lad. Rest. I'll pass along your regrets... again.”

  


~*~

  


_Frodo rested his head on Sam's stomach, his toes tickled by the tall grass swaying just beyond their picnic blanket. If he stretched out his leg, he could probably hook his hastily discarded trousers... But that seemed like entirely too much effort to expend at the moment. Nor did Sam seem inclined to retrieve his scattered clothing. In fact, Sam seemed quite content to lean back on his elbows, his head tilted up to catch the sun's rays, his eyes half-closed against the glare._

_Frodo stifled a giggle. Had Sam been a cat, no doubt he would now be purring._

_Feeling the amused tremors shaking Frodo's shoulders, Sam glanced down and smiled. “Happy, Frodo-love?” he asked shyly, only to find himself bowled over by an armful of amorous hobbit as Frodo rained kisses on his face in fervent reply._

_“Happy doesn't begin to describe it,” Frodo grinned, thrusting his hips against Sam's in invitation to a dance as old as time._

  


~*~

  


“How long has Frodo been standing there?” Gandalf questioned, peering through a torrential blast of rain. 

A rumble of thunder sounded and lightning flickered on the horizon's edge. The storm was drawing closer. A mean one from the looks of it: dark and angry, it swept across the water with frightening speed. Roiling waves had turned a strange, metallic shade of grey; like merciless sword strokes, they beat against the shield of the shore.

“Hours... days...” Bilbo sighed. “I half expect the lad to take root. He spends his every waking moment staring out to sea. Lately, he's been sleeping in that meadow too... but he certainly can't stay out there tonight. I need your assistance, Gandalf. If reason won't move Frodo, I want him picked up and carried to safety.”

“No,” Gandalf said softly. “Leave him be, old friend. Power is in the air... I can feel the magic working.”

“More power than a hobbit is meant to bear,” Bilbo retorted sharply. “Mark my words, he'll be struck by lightning...”

  


~*~

  


_Lightning flashed and heavy drops of rain began to pelt them. Holding hands and laughing like children, Frodo and Sam scampered for the shelter of a nearby barn. Their mad clatter set chickens to squawking as they burst into the fragrant haven; from the rafters, several swallows also made their opinion known. In effortless flight, the graceful birds dipped past the hobbits' heads, their angrily snapping beaks sending the two intruders burrowing into the refuge of a large haystack._

_Whispers and rustles and sighs soon drowned out both thunder's roar and irate birds' scolding twitters._

_The storm had passed and the swallows had long forgotten their displeasure by the time two disheveled hobbits poked their heads out from under the hay._

_Nestled in the warm cradle of Sam's arm, Frodo contentedly watched life in the barn resume it's normal rhythms, the hobbits' presence unremarked upon. Chickens clucked and scratched, searching for tasty treats. A proud tomcat strutted his way from stall to stall, hoping for a mouse or perhaps a bowl of cream. A cow lowed... another answered. In the rafters, the swallows tended to the hungry fledglings in their nests, their song joyful as they flew about in search of food._

_“I love you, Frodo,” Sam murmured, punctuating each word with a lingering kiss. “I love you. I love you...”_

  


~*~

  


As dawn painted the sky red, a lone seagull circled high above the muddy, sodden figure which lay curled up in a tight ball on the ground.

“I love you, too, Sam,” Frodo whispered. “I always have. I always will.” 

Bluebells nodded their agreement at this statement. The rising sun beamed its approval too. Buttercups and daisies swayed in a gentle breeze, and tall grasses shivered as if delighted by a lover's touch.

Muscles protesting the move, Frodo sat up and turned a considering gaze on the field in which he lay. It truly was a lovely sight. Raw... untamed. Its natural beauty but hinted at the potential that lurked beneath the surface. The contours of the land perfectly matched the landscape of his dreams...

In a hollow, halfway up the hill from Bilbo's smial, his mind could see a bench, with flowers all around and tall trees sheltering the spot from the heat of the afternoon sun. A wall of stone would keep the cliff's edge from eroding further. Perhaps another wall to help define the garden's edge? And, of course, a walk of crushed stone, with twisted paths leading to secret groves. Tall plants and luscious flowers in a multitude of bright hues... Perhaps a small pond to aid in irrigation? Or, better still, mayhap a spring could be encouraged to provide a steady flow of water, with tranquil pools and miniature waterfalls marking its progress down a gentle slope. A sturdy hedgerow would shelter delicate plants from the brisk easterly sea breeze and provide perfect trysting spots, well hidden from the view of curious passers-by. Ivy and roses -- if he could find them -- would look well by the smial door. A barren gate begged to be surrounded with flowers. Sunflowers? Morning glories? Sweet-peas? Did they even exist here? If so, he would seek out those and other familiar old friends... and if they were unknown in the Blessed Realm, well, there was no shortage of new flora, most of which was more than pleasing to the eye. He would experiment to discover which plants were best suited to each flowerbed. And topsoil. He would need a lot of topsoil. This spit of land made an excellent vantage point, but the soil was thin and poor...

Frodo clambered to his feet and set off in search of a garden spade.

  


~*~

  


Every night, now, the dream that finds him is the same...

_The sweet weight of the sun rests on his shoulders, the ticklish rustle of flowering grasses whispers all around. Tilting back his head, curls dancing wildly in an errant breeze, a joyous laugh spills from his lips as he stands in a field which overlooks the restless sea._

_Sturdy arms slip around his waist as warm lips caress their way down his tanned neck._

_“If you build it, I will come,” a warm voice rumbles in his ear._

Every morning, Frodo awakes, smiling.

  


~*~

  


Stones topple and are stacked again with greater care to their placement.

Blisters break and callouses take their place.

One morning, as Frodo stumbles yawning from the smial to begin his day, he discovers a perfectly proportioned stone casually propped up against the garden gate. The following morning, he finds another there. And the morning after that, there are two. Soon, he can scarcely set one day's gifts in place before the next day's offerings silently appear.

Trees that he planted in summers past now tower over Frodo's head as he carefully rakes the graveled path that winds its way between them.

Rich earth crumbles beneath his toes and stains his clothes as he kneels to weed a row of seedlings...

And if his eyes turn to the sea more often than they ought, that does not dim his hope as long years pass and his garden grows.


End file.
